


find rest for your souls

by savage_starlight



Series: and you could have it all, my empire of dirt [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bad Dreams, Can be read as gen, Except nobody actually talks through them they just Suffer, Friendships in the making, Gen, M/M, Relationships in the making, Subtle Pining, This is what happens when the two socially inept people are both awake without moderating influence, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Western Gothic, but I definitely wrote it with Gay Intents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: Clayton takes watch while the others sleep. Then the Reverend joins him.(Started initially as a Whumptober Day 16:Trembling prompt, instead turned into gay pining. Enjoy.)





	find rest for your souls

**Author's Note:**

> Did I need another fandom? Nope. Did I get absolutely enraptured with Undeadwood anyway and fall in love with all the characters anyway? Yep.
> 
> I'm sure that 98% of this fic will be proven useless by canon over the next few episodes, but I don't really care. I'm always a sucker for found family, and a group of five idiots in a desert surrounded by occult bullshit sounds like a wonderful basis for just that. Also, I love literally any time we get to see Matt as a player and he is NAILING IT as Clayton but also there were some Real Cool Moments with him and the Reverend and I just....hnnnnnnghhhh send help
> 
> Anyway. Might be continuing this, if inspiration holds??? Hit me up if anyone has prompt ideas. Trying to avoid anything too plot heavy right now but I'd love to write more of these idiots. Is it Friday yet??
> 
> (The title and the quote at the end both come from a bible verse, more specifically Matthew 11:28-29: "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." Never thought I'd be using the bible in fanfiction, but here we are anyway.)

The Reverend isn’t sleeping.

None of them are, really, not well anyway. Miss Whitlock’s got a blanket clutched to her chest like one of those warding symbols she seems so fond of, her brow creased even in sleep with trepidation and a hint of disdain. She’s not used to sleeping rough, Clayton expects, not with that fortune she sits on. Aly is doing better, flat on his back with his face to the sky like he’s trying to make the best out of the situation, and even Miriam has found a way to make herself comfortable somehow. With Clayton taking the first watch under the cold glare of the desert moon, they’ve all found a way to make do with the situation.

All of them but the Reverend, that is. Amidst the quiet, even breathing of the others’ attempts at sleep, Clayton can hear him murmuring to himself, quiet and low. Across the fire, the other man is shifting restlessly from one side to another, arms wrapped around himself like a vice. Bad dreams, Clayton reckons, and is considering nudging him awake when the Reverend sits up straight like he’s been shocked to it.

Clayton can’t help it. His hand flies to his gun with years of instinct and it’s halfway drawn before he stops himself and watches instead as the Reverend’s chest heaves with several deep, shaky breaths. The man looks around wildly a moment like he’s expecting to be jumped. Then his gaze falls on Clayton and he stills, eyes widening even further. “Is there trouble?”

Too late, Clayton realises he’s still got a hand on his gun and lets it fall. “No. You startled me.”

“My apologies.” The Reverend’s shoulders sag, and he tilts his head back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “I’m afraid I rather startled myself as well.”

“Hadn’t noticed.” Clayton’s no stranger to nightmares. Nobody really is in this town, except maybe Swearingen, sleeping snug in the top floor of his saloon atop whatever ill-built empire he’s made for himself in this place. Even so, he’s never been inclined to talking someone through their bad dreams. He settles back, expecting the Reverend to do the same in a minute or two. It’s another solid hour at least before the watch is supposed to change to Aloysius, and another three hours after that before the Reverend’s turn. He’s got plenty of time.

But he doesn’t go back to sleep. Across the fire, the Reverend shifts to a properly vertical position and pulls out a rosary from a pocket of the leather duster Clayton had bought him to keep his collar clean. It’s not done much good on that front, but it has proven to be a solid indicator of when the other man is nervous. Now, for example. He probably doesn’t know he does it, but the Reverend tugs at the edges of the jacket almost obsessively, pulling it tighter and tighter around himself like he’s chilled down to the bone. He grips his rosary tight, saying nothing as he stares into the fire, and Clayton looks away.

It’s silent for a time. The fire crackles amiably. It’s a clear, cool night, the moon high and bright above them, scattering light through the branches of the copse of trees they’ve landed themselves in. As nights on the road go, he’s had worse ones. All the same, there’s something about the stillness that he doesn’t like. It’s been two hours on watch and all he’s heard or seen is a solitary barn owl that had landed on a nearby branch and given two long, mournful hoots before sailing off into the dark again. It ain’t natural by a long shot, and while he’s not surprised he’s far from appreciative.

“Can I ask you something, Mister Sharpe?” The Reverend’s voice is low in the freshly shattered silence. Clayton almost says _no, not if you’re gonna try evangelizing me again,_ but then he looks over and the Reverend’s hands are shaking and the quip dies in his mouth.

He goes for something softer. “I’d say you just did.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Just did that too.”

The Reverend flushes, ducking his head. “Never mind, then. My apologies.” His gaze flicks back to his rosary, and Clayton bites back a sigh.

He’s not terribly fond of men of the cloth, or anybody else that seems convinced they know better than the rest of the world about what’s supposed to be good or not. Even so, the Reverend’s been more tolerable than most holy men seem to be, and he’s got a lion’s heart even if he’s got the sense of a squirrel. Clayton doesn’t quite feel guilty about being sarcastic with him, but he does feel obligated to throw the man a bone. “What is it, Father?”

The silence that follows makes him think for a moment that it’s too late for an olive branch. Then the Reverend sighs. “Do you…believe in life after death?”

Clayton frowns. “If you’re talking about rising again on the last day to wave off this sinful earth next time it goes to hell, I can’t say as though I do. Think once someone goes in the ground, they stay there.” He’s put enough people in the dirt to be sure of that, or at least to hope like hell it’s true. If people can rise up from the grave, he’ll have more than the living to look out for.

“Not literally. I mean…spiritually. The idea that someone can be born again from a past life. That they can be redeemed.”

Clayton squints, studying the Reverend for a long moment. If the other man notices, he doesn’t seem to care. No matter. “That’s a pretty loaded question, Reverend, if you don’t mind my sayin’. There a reason you’re askin’ me?”

“No.” The answer comes quick, too quick. The Reverend’s gaze shoots up and suddenly Clayton finds himself looking him dead in the eyes. They’re dark brown, almost black in the dark, the reflection of the flames dancing wildly in their depths. _Like hellfire, _Clayton thinks, and he stiffens but doesn’t dare look away. “No,” the Reverend repeats. “I don’t mean to imply anything untoward. You’re just…You’re awake at the moment, and I’m curious, and- I meant nothing by it. Forgive me.”

He asks forgiveness an awful lot for a man who’s supposed to be preaching it instead. “I didn’t mean nothin’ either. Just a question.” Clayton tears his eyes away to look at the branches overhead. That barn owl still hasn’t come back, and the shadows are still. Silent, like they’re waiting. He runs his tongue over his teeth and thinks for a long moment how to answer. There’s a lot of blood in his past, the kind no water’s ever going to wash clean. He’s buried too many people to get that dirt out from under his nails. Some of them he’s sorry for. Most of them, he’s not. He’s always looked out for himself because nobody else would, and he won’t beg forgiveness for that.

As for redemption, well. Redemption’s a heavy word in his mouth. It’s always tasted like lead.

“I don’t think you ever leave your life behind,” he says eventually. “Reckon that’s one of those shadows that sticks to you, whether you like it or not. As for bein’ reborn and forgiven, I don’t think that’s in anyone’s hands but yours. Plenty of places to go change your name and start over if that’s what you’re after.”

“Do you think it’s as simple as that? Changing a name and starting over?”

Clayton shrugs. He thinks of home, and a mob, and a six-shot revolver hot at his side. “If you’re lucky. Most people aren’t. Change your name all you like. There’s always gonna be someone who still knows your face.”

There’s no response. Clayton listens without looking and hears a sound like fabric moving, then silence again, dead silence interrupted only by the periodic popping of the fire. The good Reverend’s gone back to sleep then, salvaging what’s left of his night’s sleep. It’s a strange thing, to leave the end of a conversation he’d started hanging like that, but Clayton’s seen stranger and doesn’t bother commenting.

Overhead, the moon is arcing slowly, silently through the sky. It’s almost full now, just a sliver of dark still remaining on the left side. Clayton doesn’t consider himself a superstitious man, but he can’t deny the way the hair on the back of his neck raises when he thinks of all the hellish things they’ve seen these past few days, the even more hellish ones he’s sure are soon to come. They’ll have to lean mighty hard on each other if they’re to get through all this with a pulse. It’s not a thought he likes.

The wind picks up, kicking dust into his eyes. Clayton scowls and mutters a low oath under his breath, flicking open his battered pocket watch. It’s not even midnight yet. There’s a long ways to go before he can swap with Aloysius to squeeze a few hours rest out of the night. He sighs and turns to stoke the fire. Then he freezes.

The Reverend isn’t sleeping. He’s kneeling before the fire, head bowed low, eyes clamped shut, that same old rosary clasped so tightly between his hands that the knuckles have gone white. He’s praying, praying like Clayton’s never seen anybody pray before, like the words are the only thing keeping the darkness at the edge of camp from getting any closer.

Clayton’s not a superstitious man, and he sure as hell isn’t a religious one. He’s not sure what it is that leaves him dead in his tracks and staring. All the same, he finds himself standing there motionless as he watches the shadows dance across the Reverend’s face while prayer after desperate prayer falls soundlessly from his lips. It’s a strange thing, seeing that sort of conviction in a place like this. He’s not convinced it’s a good one.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He’s long last track of time when the Reverend finally relaxes just slightly and opens his eyes, still deep and dark and desperate in the light of the fire. He spies Clayton immediately and flinches. “Mister Sharpe, my apologies. Did you need something?”

Clayton blinks, then shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than it has any right to be. “You always pray like that, Father?”

The Reverend looks taken aback. Then a smile twitches across his face, faint and bashful. “No. No, I’m afraid not.”

“There some special occasion tonight then?”

“No,” the Reverend says again. “Only that I’m frightened, and I’m hoping to find courage.”

_Most people would try looking in the bottom of a bottle_, Clayton doesn’t say. Talking about drinking is only going to make him wish for a shot he knows he won’t be able to take for a good long while. Instead, he gives a short nod and looks away, settling back by the fire and prodding it with a large stick, tossing more wood on top of it. “You should get some rest, Father. Gonna be a long day tomorrow. We’ll need you and whatever protection you got to offer on top of things.”

“I feel that is true of all of us, Mister Sharpe.”

“Clayton,” he says without thinking, and feels the Reverend’s eyes fall to him instantly with a keen interest and no small amount of confusion. He shrugs as if there’s nothing strange to it and meets the Reverend’s gaze. “I’d say formalities seem a bit pointless when we’re obviously gonna have to keep saving each other’s necks.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” comes the reply, fast and almost nervous. “Your point is sound. I was simply surprised by it. You, of course, can refer to me as Matthew, if you would like.”

The idea of being on a first name basis with a preacher sets funny in Clayton’s mouth, but he sees no easy way around it and gives a brief nod. “Matthew, then. As I said, you should get some rest.”

“Actually, I thought I might take Aloysius’s shift in exchange for my own,” the Reverend admits, scratching the back of his head. “It seems pointless to wake him when I am already awake. You could rest early too, if you would like. I don’t mind an extra hour or so watching over everyone.”

Clayton bristles for a moment, inherently suspicious of anyone offering to do a good turn. He opens his mouth to reject the offer, then stops. The Reverend is staring at him with those deep dark eyes again, far too genuine and kind for this place. Kindness like that gets people killed.

He clamps his mouth shut and swallows the thought back. After a moment’s contemplation, he nods once in acknowledgment. “Much obliged, Father.”

“Matthew,” he corrects.

“Matthew,” Clayton repeats, and settles down near his pack. It still smells a bit like blood from the dead Irishman, but he’s used to that. “Make sure you don’t forget to wake up Mister Fogg here in a few hours. I meant what I said about needing you sharp.”

“I thought you were Sharpe?” the Reverend says, and Clayton struggles, not for the first time, with the question as to if he should simply run into the desert and put himself out of his misery or if he should endure in hopes that this job doesn’t end up with four corpses and another town he can’t return to.

“I’m gonna do you a favour and not dignify that with a response,” he says flatly and lays back, pulling his hat low over his eyes. “As a man of God, you ought to be ashamed of stoopin’ that low.”

The Reverend – Matthew – laughs softly, a low and beautiful thing. “Rest assured, I shall keep that in mind.” There is a pause. Then, quieter, he adds, “Good night, Clayton.”

“Night.” There is a part of him that wants to sit up, that wants to ask what a man of God is doing in a place like this, where he really got those scars. He wants to know what the Reverend cares for life after death, where he finds his faith, why he asks about redemption like it’s a deep and holy thing. But tonight those are another day’s questions. Tonight, he turns on his side, and as he drifts off hears a soft humming that follows him into his dreams, where he stands in a church at his mother’s side, a young boy with bruised knuckles as a preacher stands in the pulpit and says _come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest._


End file.
